Milan — Gray afternoon
The first actions began quietly.
Small groups of resistance fighters, armed with courage and words, seized strategic street corners.
Flyers were tossed from windows, spreading the new slogans:
Freedom. Justice. Reclamation.
In factories, sirens fell silent in protest.
On trams, passengers began singing songs of rebellion.
Squares that had once stood empty now buzzed with improvised gatherings.
The old regime responded quickly.
Armed patrols appeared.
Swift arrests began.
But something had changed.
This time, the people did not back down.
Every time the police dispersed one group, two, three, four more would rise elsewhere.
It was like trying to extinguish a wildfire with bare hands.
Vera, Luca, and Enzo monitored everything from a high vantage point — an abandoned tower overlooking a large part of the city.
Vera pressed the binoculars to her eyes, her lips tight with tension.
— Look! — Luca pointed.
In Piazza del Duomo, a giant improvised banner unfurled between two windows:
"Free Milan or Death."
Vera's heart pounded harder.
The city was speaking.
And this time, no one would silence it.